


I'm On Fire!

by motorghost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bromance, Character Development, College Experience, Cute Bros, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Jack Has Issues, Jack and Shitty Through the Years, Language, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), My Side-OTP, Past Relationship(s), Philosophy, Praise Kink, Shower Sex, Thank you for bein a friend, and a booty call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This repressed, rich, white, cis-male victim of modern masculinity conventions…this was Knight’s white whale."</p><p>Slice-of-life trek through Jack and Shitty's blossoming friendship with just a splash of bro-on-bro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freshman Year

It was a long ride back to Samwell after Knight's first game. They lost, and it wasn't a noble, chin-lifting, they-gave-it-all-they-had loss, it was a truly crushing 7 to 1 defeat. The entire bus was quiet and sullen, stuck in their ear buds or staring out the windows at the passing fir trees.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to liven everyone's spirits and bolster them for the next game. He kept looking around like he'd at least be able to catch someone's eye and transmit some hope, perhaps through an encouraging grin that would lead to some spirited banter.

But no one was looking at him. Knight was just a freshman: a frog, still figuring out his role on a new team. Even the sophomores were unsure of themselves and the new chemistry. The juniors were comfortable with losing, and the seniors—they were so prickly since Jack Zimmermann joined the team that they didn't even bother speaking after the game. They just packed up and shipped out. Nothing corroded a team faster than a defeat gone unaddressed -- taken as _normal_.

The air of discontent had to be dissolved, and Knight thought there was no better way to start than to align himself with the most maligned person on the bus.

Jack was staring out the window but he looked at Knight the second he started towards the seat, as if he had a proximity radar for things that might bother him -- Knight bothered him a lot.

“Hey, Jack. How are ya?”

“Fine.”

“Not that fine, I’m guessing.”

Jack shrugged. “7-1 is a tough loss.”

The guy took laconic to new heights. It wasn’t just that he was slow to speak and chose his words carefully—Knight could tell he was sitting on white rapids of feeling, all painstakingly filtered through a robot’s voice box.

See -- Knight had developed certain notions about Jack. He’d been watching him from day one: dodging jealous seniors during practice, doodling hockey plays in their History of Women's Studies class, sitting alone in the library or dining hall…he was always focused, always on point, even when he was just pouring himself a bowl of raisin bran, carefully measuring with his eyes the exact amount necessary to fuel him through morning skate. Nothing existed but hockey and the pursuit of hockey greatness, and why should it? No one was making any serious effort to distract him from his lonely consumption of bland oat flakes, let alone befriend him. It was the least Knight could do to break into those stoic reveries with loud, joyful, mile-a-minute grandstanding.

This repressed, rich, white, cis-male victim of modern masculinity conventions…this was Knight’s white whale.

“Y’know, after that lecture on the potential determinants of gender differences in self-estimated intelligence…I’m thinking of writing our first essay about hockey players.”

Jack grunted. It was more of a response than Knight had expected.

He continued, encouraged: “It’ll depend on how I choose to evaluate intelligence, but group planning and strategy implementation in rules-based activities seems like a great backdrop for exploring masculine hubris. I mean, did you see that Princeton goon? I should interview him. Do you think we’ll play them again before the midterm?”

“Look, I’m not really…I don’t really want to talk right now. Sorry.”

Knight’s jaw clipped shut. There was offering an olive branch, and then there was beating someone over the head with said branch. With Jack, he really had to respect that line.

He knew about Jack’s past. There wasn’t one person on the hockey team who didn’t. Even the student body at large couldn’t help themselves -- Knight was always seeing pointed fingers and hearing wild gossip whenever Jack was around. It was partially why Knight went out of his way to talk to the guy. They had a lot in common. Not the famous fall from grace, but the burden of enormous external expectations whilst struggling to form your own identity.

To Knight’s surprise, Jack spoke again, in rapid, French-Canadian muttering, “Should’ve focused more on zone defense. I should’ve brought it up in our first practice. I knew we needed—”

“Brah. I know you’re blamin’ yourself. But we’re a team. Win or lose, it’s a team effort..."

Knight drifted off when Jack finally looked at him. All the rumors could be true, Knight realized, and they’d still never touch on all the pain and history locked behind Jack’s empty stare—like so many layers of ancient glacial ice. He'd seen it turn razor-sharp against opposing teams, but right then, it was like Jack was Offline, engaged just enough to form English words and basic sentences. Knight pictured Jack's face, just like that, forced to respond to perfect strangers who'd cornered him with their gossip and ignorance, all before he'd turned 22. Knowing he had to give an answer, even when all he wanted to do was disappear.

The impact of it made Knight turn and face the back of the chair in front of him, uncharacteristically awkward.

“But, yeah, you’re right. Should’ve worked on that…that zone.”

The pause thickened the air. It suddenly felt a lot colder. Knight cleared his throat, but Jack spoke first.

“That was shitty of you.”

Now it was Knight’s turn for his eyes to go big. “What?”

At least he was kind of grinning. “You tell me that I shouldn’t take all the blame myself, and then you…agree with me?”

“Brah—no, what? I didn’t mean—“

Jack shook his head, looked out the window, and repeated: “Just shitty.”

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

“Shit. Oh, fuck. FUCK that’s dirty. Look at those filthy fucking hands.”

Jack looked up from his textbook with the driest glare he could muster. Shitty was wearing headphones, his laptop propped up on the opposite end of the library couch, staring at the screen with the thumb of his left hand teasing his bottom lip. If one more person stopped and looked at Jack, as if _he_ were the one responsible for this public indecency, he’d throw a chair.

“ _Unf._ Drive it _right in there_.”

He decided on his day planner first.

“Ow! Fuck, Jack!”

“We’re in the library, Shits. I’m not apologizing again.”

Why they were studying together was a mystery to outsiders, but even Jack couldn’t fully explain how it’d happened. It was only September and already Shitty had decided they were blood brothers. It started when Shitty had asked Jack if they could review class notes after practice, then somehow turned it into daily sessions. Now Shitty was following him to the library, which Jack had expressly chosen for its chance of turning down the volume on Shitty's interruptions. Sometimes they didn't talk at all, but that was even worse, because the lack of stimulation meant that Shitty compensated for it later on, usually with a deep hug or an impromptu wrestling match -- matches that Jack always won. Jack didn’t understand why Shitty would keep trying something he was bound to fail.

Jack had never experienced such aggressive affection. His parents were reserved, affectionate yet polite in their love, and Parse.

Parse was a whetstone and Jack could never get sharp enough. Even when he had his mouth around Parse’s dick, he didn’t feel close to him. He’d just look up and see that cocky smile and jerk himself off and never feel true satisfaction. Like chasing a high -- the drug necessitated a subsequently stronger dosage for continued enjoyment.

This was more like having a large, talking, hockey-playing dog, and Jack had always been more of a cat person.

“Oh! OHHH! FUCK ME, PATRICK KAAAAAANE!”

Jack stood up and tried not to notice the head librarian shaking her head as he stalked out of the room. He didn’t have to turn around to know that Shitty was following.

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Fall at Samwell was a gorgeous love affair and Shitty was pumped for his very first Haus party. It took him awhile to get an invite (he didn’t rub all the residents the right way) but it turned out that all it took was rubbing just one person the right way. He may not have been first line material, but his hands could deliver the most epic fucking massages. Now he was looking forward to christening the new hardwood floors with poor alcohol and even poorer decisions.

And it just happened to be Shitty’s favorite holiday.

Halloween was a celebration of performative identity, letting the interior match the exterior, shunning practical norms in every fabulous way possible. He’d long-ago decided on a Lady Godiva spread with a long blonde wig that artfully covered his invitation-only parts with pretty braids and flowery bows, because fuck it if he wasn’t going to introduce his lack of shame and gender normality in the loudest way possible. The team was already acquainted with his long tirades about the complexities of gender roles in modern sports and they didn’t hate him for it! More annoyed, but really, if Shitty wasn’t making someone shift uncomfortably in their seat, he reasoned, then they probably weren’t _fully_ absorbing the depth of his ideology. Great change necessitates some discomfort!

Jack did not attend, even though everyone on the team at least made an appearance, but Shitty didn’t concern himself. He was going to whittle away Jack’s masculine barriers by working _through_ his weaknesses, not making them more apparent. If he’d learned anything from his years as a Cambridge prep boy in a dominantly liberal state, it was that you had to work with each and every personality on its own terms. Learn how to speak their language before you speak your peace. It’s what drew him to the law.

“Dudeliness is a measure of homosociality, a fancy gender studies term for what folks often call bromances — very close, platonic friendships between people of the same sex. A particularly dudely bro is someone you usually think of as an intrinsic part of a larger pack of bros.”

“Dude…I just asked for a Natty Light.”

Shitty frowned. “Fine. Take it and go in ignorance. Don’t blame me if you find yourself trapped between cultural sexual mores and the fluidity of your own—HEY!”

The guy hurried away and Shitty quickly moved on to the next group somewhat deflated. He kept the gender talk to a minimal, drank quickly, and the next morning, he didn’t remember where he’d left his wig.

He found it that afternoon, at the bottom of his hockey bag.

“Ahh, Jack, you should’ve been there. I mean, beer pong is great, but you don’t have to drink to have a good time with your brahs. And look, you missed my costume.”

Jack looked up and balked at the sight of Shitty in nothing but a towel and a blonde wig that was the physical manifestation of Hot Mess. Shitty was grinning wide from underneath his roguish mustache. Jack noticed that Shitty still had glitter on his stomach. He also noticed that Shitty’s stomach was still too round and cute for a hockey player.

Jack quickly returned his scowl to the stick he was taping.

“I don’t do parties like that, Shits.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. S’fine. I had some pretty hairy discussions with some of the boys anyway.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear the edited version in class next week.”

“Oho! Back to his top chirping form! You beautiful devil. Did you all hear Mr. Zimmermann’s chirp, gentlemen? It was quick, a little wanting in tone but I thought it had a nice dry finish...”

Shitty turned to finish dressing, missing Jack’s little smile by seconds.

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Springtime in New England meant little white flowers poking up underneath the shade of stately maple and elm trees. It made the pond sparkle like diamonds, it made the birds mad with music. Shitty went a little mad himself, and Jack had to wonder (not for the last time) whether Shitty was mostly human or mostly animal. The noble academic on top, a North-Eastern mustang on the bottom. It would explain how he couldn't seem to stop talking, whether it was with his mouth or his relentless physicality.

There wasn’t any warning -- Jack’s acute senses alerted him just in time to catch Shitty around the waist as he tackled Jack to the ground. The birds and little white flowers were dumbstruck as two young adult men rolled around on the green-yellow grass like foxes in mating season.

“Argh!” Shitty tried to twist out of Jack’s massive arms. It was ridiculous how little difference his struggles made. “I give! I give, Captain!”

Jack let go and assumed a more dignified position on the lawn. “I’m not your Captain, Shitty.”

“But you will be,” Shitty said, in a sing-song, inching closer. “Most of the team already looks up to you.”

“Most,” Jack echoed.

Shitty waved his hand dismissively before settling his flow in Jack’s lap. Jack sighed, resigned to putting his hands awkwardly at his sides, determined not to acknowledge Shitty’s actions -- as if he were helpless to stop them.

“I’m serious, brah. I know you’ve had your run-ins with the seniors, and that fucking _ass clown_ Jarrod, but you’re a star. Everyone knows it. You come up with more plays than the fucking coaches. You pinpoint all the holes in our game and help each and every man work towards his best. You’re a fucking Olympic-caliber athlete -- it’s not even up for debate.”

Jack felt lucky that Shitty couldn’t see his face because it was impossible to hide the reaction that stretched one corner of his mouth further upward than the other. His smile always was a little crooked. “The team’s good. I just try my best to help when I can.”

“Spoken like the true patron saint of Canada.”

Jack cuffed Shitty’s head, then ended up petting him. Shitty faced the Pond but Jack could see his eyes close and the corners of his mustache curl up. He'd often remarked that one of the reasons he kept his hair long was to encourage petting.

It was astonishing, at how easy it was, lounging there in the fresh grass: the sun and the breeze there for their liking and Shitty's carelessly effusive worship. No friendship had ever been so effortless for Jack. Even when he was young, there were expectations (his father, Canada, the whole world it felt like), jealousies (mostly everyone else), stubbornness (mostly Jack) and, worst of all, secrets -- but he didn’t feel any of that with Shitty. They could let a lull drip into a conversation and just watch it settle into a serene pond, birds singing somewhere very far away.

“At rehab, they talked a lot about self-acceptance. Like...how to handle your mistakes.”

Shitty’s eyes opened, fresh and verdant. He toyed with the grass at his knuckles a little, letting it run over his hand as if he simply enjoyed the texture. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. This guy, Dr. Ellis…he used to quote this other guy. I think he was a Greek philosopher. It was something like…It’s not what happens that causes anxiety, but the view you take of what happens.”

“Epictetus,” Shitty smiled. “A Stoic. Not my favorite branch of thought, but it has some goodies.”

Jack grinned because, of course, Shitty already knew about it more than he did. “Yeah. So. I guess I could never really understand what he was trying to say. If I fail, what, I’m…supposed to be okay with that?” Jack could feel the shake threatening to make his voice falter, but he pushed it away, forced the confidence like he always did; it came out in predictably monotone drags. “I’m supposed to be okay with losing?”

Shitty turned onto his back so he could look up at Jack’s face. He knew that Jack would not like this, and, lo and behold, Jack was looking Nobly Off Into the Distance as soon as Shitty met his gaze.

“I don’t think so,” Shitty started, keeping his voice light and springy. “It’s just a matter of knowing that, either way, the game is worthwhile. _You_ are worthwhile. Say you win, right? How do you feel afterwards--the next day? What are you thinking about?”

A shadow crossed over Jack’s face. “The next game.”

“Exactly. Even when you’re doing great, you’ll always have anxiety about the possibility of failure. Of losing it all. You can't let your value rest on how many games you win or lose. Just have fun either way.”

“But…” Jack didn’t let himself drift off so much as he clenched his jaw shut until the hollows under his cheekbones twitched.

Shitty realized that Jack valued Shitty’s approval. He knew he wouldn’t let himself sound too “uncaptainly” now that Shitty had brought it up. His heart grew ten sizes and he gave Jack his most magnanimous smile when he reached up and touched his cheek.

“You’re a god, Jack. You’re not gonna let yourself go after making a mistake, and that’s okay. Just don’t be _too_ hard on yourself. Do what I do…take a wider view of things. I mean, you wouldn't guess it, but I used to be a pretty self-centered douchebag. But all the mistakes I made just led me to where I am now, which is a…” Shitty took a deep inhale, looped his arms gently behind his head, and settled deeper into Jack's enormous thighs, “Pretty damn good place.”

Jack looked around for anyone who might have seen Shitty touch his cheek, then wondered why he was doing that. _This is Samwell_ , he told himself. This is a safe place. That's why he picked it. And he picked Shitty, even if he didn't quite understand how or why. It's just what he needed at the time.

A high he didn't need to chase.

“You’re right, Shitty. We’ll get Yale next time.”

“That’s the spirit, ya magnificent kingly fucker.”

Jack actually chuckled. Shitty smiled big, mustache stretching ear to ear, helpless in his admiration. Jack would never stop proving himself, on and off the ice. Shitty went inside himself and promised that he, too, would dedicate himself fully to the path he’d laid out. He'd change the world, and Jack was his first step.

“Ya fuckin’ beaut. Ya fuckin’ prince among men. Ya swol butterfly Adonis—“

Jack shoved Shitty off his lap and Shitty rolled down the hill.

Shitty thought, _I'm on fire!_

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Carter Marsh was the only senior that had not yet handed out dibs. He was stubborn and wanted to be wooed, especially since his bedroom had a window facing the roof, a plush new mattress, and this neat wooden loft-bed with a cozy reading nook underneath.

Shitty wanted that fucking cozy reading nook. Shitty wanted to sit on that roof and blaze one under the shade of that stately elm. Shitty was going to be lord and master of the Haus if it fucking killed him. He was going to sleep one room over from Jack Zimmermann and continue the process of whittling away that ancient Canadian ice, chip by chip.

Luckily, he already had a flawless opening bid; his combination of strong hands and lack of shame meant that every member of the men’s hockey team had, at least once, experienced the best massage of their life. Jack still refused to partake, but Jack got to wrestle him and that was physical affection of a higher caliber. Anyway... baby steps.

“So how about it, Marshy?” Shitty dug his thumbs into Carter’s trapezius and felt him squirm. “Free back massages until I graduate?”

“For life.”

“ _Life?_ C’mon man, seriously, you gonna come over when I’m at dinner with my future wife and future adopted kids and--?“

Carter looked up at Shitty with the eyes of a man who was not fucking around.

“ _Life._ ”

Shitty didn’t even pause. “You got it, brah.”

 

_/ _/ _/

“You’re the worst mother fucker I’ve ever met, and I went to prep school in _Andover_.”

Shitty had his finger out and pointed at the square jaw of the hockey team's well-muscled, six-foot-four-when-he's-hunching, 19-going-on-40, junior right-wing and season-long Captain hopeful, Jarrod Eyre. Jarrod was frowning and looking at Shitty like he was either about to snap Shitty in twain or plotting to get him thrown off the team, and Jack was so terrified of the latter that it left him paralyzed, standing just behind his wild-eyed best friend with a frozen grimace. His instincts were failing him. His hockey-robot programming had no instructions for this situation. But if it came to blows, well... Jack had been playing hockey all his life. He imagined it would be even easier to fight with his feet on solid ground.

It was the end of freshman year and barely an hour after their last team dinner. The coaches were gone, as was half the team. The half that stuck around to see the fallout were guys who really did have Jack’s back -- mostly other freshman who’d seen the team flourish with Jack’s magic. Freshman who had no concept of a Samwell team before Jack.

“Back off, Knight. This doesn’t concern you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, _Jarrod_. You gonna own up to being a weak ass _punk_ who can’t stand to see someone else in the spotlight?”

“This _junkie reject_ is going to tear this team apart,” Jarrod snapped in a captainly tone, even and sure, solid enough to make even Jack cringe. “You think Zimmermann is a good player, fine. No one doubts that. You wanna make him _captain_ , fine. But he’s got a record of mishandling the pressure. Give it a couple seasons, and trust me, Samwell won’t even be on the map. Just another tiny Northeastern school full of tiny Northeastern pussies.”

Shitty got a look in his eye that Jack recognized. A look he usually got right before he ended up in the penalty box. “ _Say that again._ ”

Jarrod looked genuinely confused. “What? Which part?”

Shitty launched himself. He was too skinny and just a few inches too short to take on Jarrod, but as soon as the bigger guy had a grip on Shitty’s nice white collar, Jack was there, shoving himself between them like an iron wall.

He had Shitty in his arms and several yards away from the crowd before Shitty could get it together enough to yell, “YOUR GENDER-ROOTED DEROGATORY TERMS ARE A VIOLENCE AGAINST HUMAN EVOLUTION!”

“That’s it,” the manager said. “I quit. You guys can find someone else to deal with these fucking shenanigans.”

She tossed her clipboard to the ground and strode away, leaving twenty flabbergasted hockey players standing around dumbly and two flustered rookies still marching off towards the pond, Jack not so much as containing Shitty now as he was walking with his arm slung around his shoulders.


	2. Sophmore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An immovable object can’t meet an irresistible force—if one exists, it logically follows that the other cannot.
> 
> With Jack and Shitty, it always came down to a 50/50 chance."
> 
> The completed Chapter 2! I took some liberties with the canon (IE Jack confiding in Shitty about his sexuality) and I'll probably keep taking liberties, but we'll all be fine. c:

“Jack,” Shitty whispered. “I _really_ like Lardo.”

Jack opened his eyes. It was 12:54 am. They'd just gone to bed after another grueling training session brought to you by the new, eager-to-win Sophomore Captain Jack Zimmermann, during which Jack had worked, if possible, even harder than usual. He didn’t have the strength to turn around and glare at Shitty, who was staring wide-eyed at him from the other side of the bed. Shitty had a hard time sleeping alone sometimes and didn't explain why. He also wouldn't discuss why he wanted Jack to be the little spoon.

“Shitty…we need to sleep.”

“I know, but brah, I just can’t! She’s fucking s’wawesome! She doesn’t take shit from _anyone_ \-- the whole team’s afraid of her! And yet desperate for her approval at the same time? And the coaches, they fucking love her. And her _paintings_ , Jesus H. Christ -- did you know she paints these pictures, Jesus, Jack, they’re, like… _Fuck!_ She’s so cool, she’s great at pong and her chirps are sick and I think I might be falling in love--“

Jack turned around and leaned over him. “Shitty. We’ll talk about this later. We have class in the morning --  _go to sleep_.”

Shitty made sure Jack knew just how hurt he was by twisting away, refusing his Big Spoon role, and huffing into his pillow.

“And don’t wake me up in the middle of the night for a non-hockey-related reason again.”

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

"Shitty... I'm bisexual."

It was right after another loss against Yale, may they suffer in eternal flames, blessed be Samwell's name, and Jack had called Shitty down to the loading docks after disappearing for half an hour and nearly giving poor Shitty a heart attack. Shitty found him propped up against the wall and looking like pure tragedy.

Then he almost cried and Shitty definitely cried and after another half an hour of Jack laying his head against Shitty's shoulder, out came the confession.

"Oh. Cool, brah." Shitty had his arm wrapped around Jack's impressive shoulders, so he gave him an encouraging squeeze.

"You aren't... surprised?"

"I'm fucking floored, but, you know, that's my fault for being a hetero presumptuous fuck and making judgments based on gross stereotypes."

Jack sat up. His eyes were still wet. "You can't tell anyone."

Shitty tried to smile, but it looked like it hurt. "Yeah. I know."

Jack looked away. He couldn't stand to see Shitty hurt, Shitty knew. He couldn't even let his best friend feel bad for him. Shitty pulled himself together for Jack's sake, but inside, he was crushed on Jack's behalf, and vowed for the millionth time to find a way to bring this beautiful, broken man some mother fucking peace.

"Come on, brah. Let's go get some froyo."

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

“And then he stayed for _the full fucking hour_. I think I got carpal tunnel.”

“Shitty…why are you naked?”

Jack came home early on Tuesdays and Thursdays, right before Shitty had to leave for his ‘Reproductive Politics in the United States’ class, so there was a slight overlap in their habits. Shitty was naked and splayed on Jack’s bed as if it were his own, a textbook only incidentally covering his crotch.

He’d discovered early on that Jack had an innate taste for the finer things -- understandable, growing up with NHL money. Shitty was the same, but his incredible rebellious streak meant that he'd squelched his open cravings for champagne and foie gras at an early age. That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy Jack’s Egyptian cotton sheets under his bare buttocks every now and then. He was a learn'ed man of pleasure. A bon vivant. It was a part of his role as unofficial youth counselor and constantly-stoned morale booster to be flamboyantly flippant, especially if it unsettled his best robot friend's programming.

“Because this shit right here is at _least_ 1500 thread count. Yo, are you gonna listen to my epic Haus-dibs story or nah?”

“No… Why are you--”

“C’mon, brah, you’ve seen, I’m gonna guess, at least a hundred dudes in varying states of undress. I'm clean, at least. Not sweating through a jock strap."

Jack let his backpack thud to the floor, and then, as if he’d just realized his laptop was in there, nursed it out of its pocket and checked it for damage. Shitty rose a brow.

“You _know_ it’s weird,” Jack said, guardedly.

“Do I? What is weird? What’s common isn’t necessarily normal except by--“

“Don’t start.” Jack sighed again, and then sat down very deliberately in his reading chair at the food of the bed, keeping his eyes on his homework. “Just don’t… tell anyone else about this.”

“Well, I already went and got this beer in full view of Holster and Ransom. All they said was, ‘Bro, sweet hamstrings.’”

“What.”

“Then they three-way-fist-bumped me. It was s’wawesome.”

"..."

"...Wait. Did that jock strap thing turn you on?"

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

"Hey, don't feel bad. Shitty's hit me in the face with a soccer ball before our first game every year."

Ransom howled with laughter and Holster smirked while slapping Shitty on the back way too hard. There were Natty Lights and multiple bags of nutritionally unsound snacks. Autumn wind beat their windows but the Haus was nice and warm. Jack was smiling. They were all sitting around the kitchen table, something Shitty realized was unprecedented, even when he'd purposefully hung around the place all of freshman year just to subtly, gradually, make everyone psychologically associate him with the Haus. Holster and Ransom were different than the other guys on the team but he couldn't say exactly why. Jack seemed a little more comfortable around them and Shitty couldn't get enough of their bizarre psychic D-man bond.

"No, but seriously, Holtzy... how did you know Ransom would be there?"

"Bro, don't even ask. I just knew he was."

"Holtz has gifts, man. He's like a fucking fish. He can feel the currents change. I've seen it." Ransom sounded like he was preaching gospel. His eyes were a little wide, but that might've been the slight contact-high he definitely had from Shitty's giant blunt.

"Thank you, sir," Holster nodded, just as sincere.

"You guys are adorable," Shitty sighed. Ransom and Holster didn't even get awkward when Shitty made less-than-heterosexual comments like that. They just laughed. They were on a whole other level. They were _brosexual_. Shitty wanted to write a paper about them.

And Jack was smiling more than Shitty had ever seen.

"So, what're you gonna be for Halloween, Jack?"

"Holster plEASE doN'T BRING THAT UP AROUND ME."

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

The first Haus party of Jack and Shitty’s co-ed life was a _rager_. Maybe it was because they were enjoying an unprecedented winning streak, maybe it was because Holster and Ransom were apparently very talented party planners and wanted to flex their talents before the even bigger Halloween event in a couple months, maybe it was because the late-fall air at Samwell generated more excitement in its students then a puck-drop at playoffs. Either way, there was lots of booze, lots of people, and lots of bad choices made with screaming revelry.

Shitty relished moments in which he could fully embrace the moment and take part in group euphoria, especially when he was the one directing it. No one knew how a megaphone found its way into his hand but it may as well have materialized there like the fucking staff of Moses, because when his vibrating tenor echoed throughout the packed Haus, he imagined he could part the Pond if it were just a little bit closer. 

He was _invincible_.

Surely he could inspire a Canadian iceberg to float its way downstairs.

He took the stairs two at a time. He put on his aviators for dramatic affect. He banged on the door and didn't wait for a response before barging inside.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, _get out of your room!_ ”

An immovable object can’t meet an irresistible force—if one exists, it logically follows that the other cannot.

With Jack and Shitty, it always came down to a 50/50 chance.

When Shitty caught sight of the look on Jack’s face after he burst through the door, his American-flag vest slipped a little down his sagging shoulders.

The way Jack hunched over his laptop, shirtless on his bed, was the picture of pain. The faint sound of NHL highlights was barely audible under the downstairs baseline. A blonde hockey player in black jersey kept sweeping his way in and out of the little glowing frame, but Jack snapped it shut before Shitty could identify more. Not that he didn't know exactly what the fuck he was looking at.

“I don’t drink, remember?”

Jack had never mentioned that out loud to Shitty, because Shitty knew that Jack shouldn’t have to mention things like that. Not to him.

“Yeah.”

Shitty wished desperately to say something that would fix it.

All that happened was he took too long to leave.

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

The rest of the night went as planned, save for the destination. Shitty had hoped to wind up in his reading nook with Lardo, but his heart wasn't in it, so she went home with her art school friends and he wandered around a sea of beer spills and red cups at 4am, a joint dangling unenthusiastically out the corner of his mouth. When he almost stepped on a snoozing freshman’s arm, he decided to stop avoiding life and head on upstairs.

Even standing outside Jack’s door was too much.

So he swayed to his own bedroom. He peeled off his shirt and immediately felt better. He kept peeling and tugging until he was fully naked and breathing normally for what felt like the first time in hours.

A wave of relief passed over him as he looked down at his body. His eyes closed and his shoulders sank, releasing tension he didn’t even know he had. Every dark shadow and difficult emotion disappeared from his mind. He didn’t even have a mind -- just a body. He wasn’t his name, or his bravado, or even his philosophy...

Shitty touched the beer-sticky skin on his forearms. _Is this why I like being naked? To escape my thoughts?_

He didn’t want to shower. A shower was a box made for thinking. But he really needed to get clean. He couldn’t imagine how bad he was going to feel when he woke up -- may as well not add day-old beer stank to the mix.

He and Jack strode into the bathroom at the same time. With how impulsive they both were, the only surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened sooner.

It still wasn't a good time.

“Uh--“ Jack deftly swept a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist, even though he was still wearing boxer briefs. “Sorry, you can go f--“

“Fuck myself?” Shitty finished. Quick on the draw, even nine beers and two spliffs under.

Jack looked at Shitty. Shitty looked at him. His captain was red and flushed, like he’d just been enjoying more than Las Vegas’s latest clutch goal.

“You have someone in there?”

Jack shrugged. “She’s gone. It was just… you know.”

Shitty did not know. “Yeah. Hey, I mean, I’m surprised you can make it to class at all, with that pack a’ puck bunnies hopping after you all the time.”

Jack’s eyes fell to the ground, along with the atmosphere. He started to leave.

“Wait. I’m sorry.”

Shitty had, at least, made it to sophomore year without drunkenly crying in front of anyone. And Jack, at least, wasn’t a bad person to break the streak with. He looked more confused than judgmental.

“Are you--?”

“Crying, yeah. I mean, I’d stop, but brah, it’d probably come out later as a fuckin’ hernia or something. My emotional development lags way behind the mental. Always been like that. But... couldn’t even think my way through this. Jack, I wanted to give you so much. I wanted to help--no, just, _teach_ you, or something, all the stuff I’ve been learning, I wanted to pass it on because I knew you could do so much with it, man. You could soar so high and you got all these assholes tryin' to clip your wings. I wanted us to… fuck, explore our consciousness…nesses…together, separately, but not preach! Compare notes? I dunno, but man, I wanna be the best lawyer in the world and help everyone and I can’t… I couldn’t even help you, Jack. I made you feel worse. I’m the literal actual fuckin’ _worst_ …”

“Shitty,” Jack whispered.

This had two effects: Jack’s voice, that princely voice, that God-given ability to inspire and control others with just his tone, stopped Shitty’s tears. For a second he felt like he was back on the ice. No time for that, Knight. Keep your head up.

The second effect was that Shitty leaned forward to hear what Jack had to say next because there was no way he was gonna miss a word.

Then Jack leaned forward, too. His mouth was open. He looked even more flushed.

Shitty opened his mouth. His eyes would’ve been wide, but he was so high and so drunk that his lids couldn’t twitch above a Zimmermann-like droop. Even his hips had a lassitude about them, a swinging, like a lazy horse.

The next day, he’d think back to what he must have looked like, to Jack, and better understand how things ended up the way they did.

 

 

Jack reached out for Shitty’s jaw and dragged their mouths together. Shitty didn’t tense, didn’t resist. It went from 0 to 60, all tongue and panting breaths, and Jack was the one who peeled off the towels.

Shitty couldn’t remember the last time his cock was that hard, that fast. Every time it even got close to Jack’s erection it twitched like a compass needle. He was postulating what this meant about his sexual nature when Jack moved his mouth to Shitty’s neck, producing a gasp, and pushed their fronts together, producing a moan. Jack’s canines were sharp and he didn’t hold back. Jack was going at him like a wild animal. Jack. Jack _Zimmermann_. His best friend and hockey captain. His white whale.

Shitty caught their reflection in the bathroom mirror and let out another gasp. He saw his own hands, clinging to Jack’s trapezius like the pull-up bar at the gym, Jack’s back writhing like each individual muscle was squirming for more, more, more. Shitty loved his own body, its svelte lines and subtle curves, but Jack. Well. Shitty didn’t constantly praise Jack’s appearance for nothing.

They looked delicious together.

And _obscene_. The old yellow light bulbs. The fleshy pink glow from the shower curtain. Even the stains in the grout added to the pull in his groin. And just the simple fact that it was a cock he was grinding against, and his best friend’s besides… it all fueled many different fires and they burned clear through any hetero misgivings.

Such as they were.

“Fuck. _Jack_.”

Jack ducked his head and mouthed Shitty’s chest, doing insane and practiced things to his nipples. Shitty wondered if Jack had fantasized about this. Planned what he wanted to do. He did love a good strategy.

“Jack,” he breathed. “I swear I wasn’t tryin’ to tease you.”

Jack stopped and straightened. “What?”

“Me, bein’ naked. All the time. That wasn’t about…”

Jack grinned. “I know. You’re just… comfortable with your body. With your whole self.” He stroked Shitty’s hips. “I admire that.”

Shitty thought he might be blushing, but he wasn’t about to check in the mirror. When was the last time he’d been this out of breath? Last week's practice?

“I admire you more.”

Jack actually chuckled. “You don’t know that.”

“Brah, you did so much with what you were handed. And you’re gonna do so much more. You’re a walkin’ marvel of nature. And I’m not even talking about your ass.”

“Shitty…  _stop_.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

Jack’s eyes shot to Shitty’s like magnets straining to collide. Shitty was, without fail, either rebelling against authority, or taking the lead himself. He didn’t pass jurisdiction onto anyone else.

Except for Jack. Because Jack was royalty as far as Shitty was concerned.

Jack whispered again, “You don’t have to do that.”

Shitty knew that Jack wasn’t aware of his own desperate need to be praised -- it just made him all the more deserving.

“Brah, I’m the one who’s never done this before.” He took a step forward and pressed their crotches together. Jack swallowed a hiss and his fingers tightened on Shitty’s hips.

“Tell me what to do, cap.”

Jack ran his hands back to Shitty’s ass and took a firm grip before he dragged their fronts together with slow relish. Shitty’s forehead touched Jack’s shoulder and he shuddered into the embrace as the heat between them multiplied. He wanted to melt, but he needed to thrust, to create that friction between their dicks again and again, pumping relentlessly, like unpracticed, rutting teenagers. The strength of Jack’s grip was unbelievable and _fuck_ if Shitty could remember to keep his voice down.

“Jack.”

Then the shower was running. Shitty only realized what Jack had done in hindsight -- because immediately after he turned on the water, he grabbed Shitty’s wrists and pinned him to the wall, fast.

 _Fuck_. It was heart stopping. Shitty imagined they were on the ice and Jack suddenly looked like a predator. Like how any opposing team probably saw him. Not as Jack -- just _Zimmermann_.

Shitty didn’t hate it.

“Show me… if you like it.” Jack whispered, going from lion to kitten in two seconds flat. “If you like what I do, let me know.”

He likes applause, Shitty thought. He likes _my_ applause.

“Thought I talked too much for you.”

Jack let their hips buck against each other but didn’t loose that leonine rumble. “You _do_ talk too much. And I want to hear it.”

“Yeah. Okay. _Fuck_ yeah.” Shitty arched his hips and Jack bit his lip. “Just, please, keep touching me. You were in the right area before.”

“Your hips?”

Shitty’s eyes opened. Barely. “And my… thighs.”

“Really?”

“It’s sensitive, mother fucker. Just… fuckin’ squeeze. God. Those hands.”

Jack’s hands found Shitty’s inner thighs and kneaded them. Electricity shot straight up his cock and looped back around, making a miraculous circuit through Jack’s calloused fingers. He was so good at giving massages because he always wanted one himself -- to be molded like dough in a pair of caring, considerate hands, manhandled and manipulated. He'd often imagined Lardo doing something similar to his hips.

Whenever and wherever he walked, Shitty was buoyant. His hips were loose and free, like his spirit. They rolled like gears in Jack’s hands and Jack stared like he was imagining them riding his cock. Or maybe that was only Shitty doing the imagining. His imagination did get pretty wild sometimes.

Jack licked Shitty’s fingers in his mouth and worked his fingers into the crook of his pelvis. He only acknowledged Shitty’s cock when it grazed his own, always followed by an involuntary lurch. Jack never did anything involuntary, even the wrong thing. The sight of him, unhinged, unguarded… it released things in Shitty that he didn’t even know were there.

“Jack. Fuck. You fucking… fuck, that’s… it hurts, it’s _so good_. Fuuuuck.”

“I used to think you were articulate.” Jack ran his tongue up Shitty’s neck just as he partially lifted Shitty up against the wall by the swells of his inner thighs.

Shitty moaned, “Just wait ‘til you hear me come.”

Jack moaned harder, deeper.

Shitty _longed_ for Jack. Longing was his favorite emotion and everything about this was unreal, unreachable. Jack was far away and not close enough at the same time.

“Jack. M’not… I can’t stand up.”

Jack led them into the shower and kissed Shitty with wild abandon, half holding him up by his ass while the warm water streamed down their coiled muscles. Shitty was a wildfire, fast and expansive, covering all reachable areas at once, but Jack was a constant explosion. Jack was the Sun. Shitty felt himself burning for the very first time and couldn’t get enough.

The kiss broke so they could pant against each other’s open mouths, stare at each other: heavy and liberated, their hands never quite stopping. Jack really was _staring_ at him, right in the eyes, with unbreakable focus. Tilted like a wolf's eyes. Shitty’s feelings were like pounding hooves through his chest and he knew Jack was feeling the same thing. Jack’s hands found Shitty’s cock and he started pumping it with his own. Shitty ran his hands down Jack’s back like he was trying to soothe a panther and Jack curved into his touch. He remembered Jack’s request and rasped into his ear while clutching his back:

“Fuck. That feels so _good_. Keep stroking my cock with that big fuckin’ hand, Jack.”

Jack’s back shivered in a way that Shitty’s strong hands couldn’t have triggered alone. The praise worked better than electric shocks. Jack even added soap to his hand and started working their cocks with slick, hard, slow squeezes that twisted up at the end. The guy could never stop improving his game.

“Is that better?”

Shitty could barely keep his legs from collapsing. Jack was giving his all.

“It’s so good. Jack. _Nngh_ , your dick against mine, fuck, it's so hot...”

His voice sounded different. He didn’t recognize the sound that came out.

“M’fucking legs… they’re… m’shaking so fucking bad, _fuck_.”

The steam got into his brain and poured out of his throat like liquid nitrogen.

“Oh my God. Oh my _God_. Fuck, yeah, _Jack!_ ”

The things Jack could bring out in him.

“I love your cock grindin’ on mine, feels so good I wanna scream, Jack, I’m gonna fuckin’ -- just, fuck me up, Christ Al _mighty_. Bite me,” Shitty was pleading, a wreck already, “Please, Jack, _baby_ , bite me again, _fuck_.”

" _Shitty_ , fuck." Jack gasped through the water and dropped to his knees. Shitty didn’t have time to be confused -- Jack’s hot mouth was suckling his inner thigh. Then Shitty was biting down on his own knuckles to keep from shouting. Lips and tongue turned to teeth and worried flesh. Jack was growling. It was rough and vibrant and way too passionate. Shitty’s muscles shook. The test of stamina alone was too good for words. He should’ve fucked an athlete long ago.

“Ahhh, yeah, you beautiful mother fucker. Fuck me. Fuck _me_.”

Shitty hadn’t meant it literally, but Jack was in game mode. He wasn’t going to make a single mistake, Shitty quickly realized, not when he was given direction. He worked a spit-slicked finger into Shitty before he could think about it and Shitty -- Shitty wasn’t mad.

It hurt, at least a little. It also didn’t exactly rock his world. His first thoughts were along the lines of, _Huh, so that’s how that feels, well, I can live without that,_ but then Jack woke up Shitty’s prostate with a few rapid taps and Shitty was... Shitty was surprised.

A few more strokes, harder, _slower_ , and Shitty realized that Jack knew what he was doing and also that he should never doubt him.

A strangled whine bubbled out of Shitty's throat before he could even think of stopping it. He bucked from Jack’s mouth to Jack’s hand, only his upper back touching tile. His hands held Jack’s hair like reins and Jack took it like a champ. Jack took up so much room. Through the pale pink shower curtain, it was all a haze. Everything was Jack.

Their roughness hadn’t petered, so Shitty felt no compunction in taking Jack’s jaw and guiding his cock into his mouth, which he'd been aching for ever since he got a taste of his lips. Jack looked up at him, eyelids heavier than ever, that perfect jaw straining to do a good job, the hollow cheeks as he pulled his lips up to the head and Shitty’s foreskin along with it… Shitty had to concentrate not to come right there. He pushed his wet hair out of his face so he didn’t miss a thing. He stroked Jack's hair back as well and the bastard looked even more handsome.

The head of his cock slipped against Jack’s lips and Jack took it in his own hand, pumping it while looking up at Shitty. “Pull my hair.” He licked up the shaft before swallowing again with a deep moan.

“Ahhhgn, you _fucker_ —“ Shitty thrust impulsively and felt the back of Jack’s throat. He kept it there, fingers scraping scalp. Jack groaned around him and didn’t move, didn’t do anything to save himself from choking. Shitty caressed Jack's hair while Jack hummed and drooled. Then Shitty leaned back, too good to hurt him for long, and Jack’s finger crooked even harder in his ass. The sound he let out was dangerously loud, but that fact didn't register. Shitty was in a state of perfect No-Thought, the kind he'd only previously achieved with zero clothes, four hours of sun, and two bomb ass joints.

Jack milked his cock with powerful drags, and his fingering grew bold and insistent. Shitty could only look at Jack in glances, because fuck, it was slow. Jack had incredible stamina and would do anything to please Shitty and Shitty wanted the moment to stretch into eternity.

Jack teased him, kept him on the edge. Shitty stroked Jack’s hair, called him Captain, told him how good he was. Jack took his mouth off Shitty only to mutter French obscenities and stroke his cock against his lips.

“I-I’m gonna come. _Jack_. I’m gonna come down your fucking throat.”

Jack looked up at him with his fucking wolf eyes and spilled some dark French incantation and that was it. Shitty shoved his fist between his teeth and Jack swallowed most of it. Shitty’s thighs quivered and finally failed, letting the rest of him crumple to Jack’s level, which was fine, because then he had the great fortune to witness Jack Zimmermann, on his knees, jerking himself off with a few strokes, a beautiful whimper breaking up his silent streak.

Shitty pulled Jack into his chest. “You gorgeous mother fucker. You fucking Adonis.”

Both kissed with longing. Both were aware of how special it was, and that, when it was over, it was probably over for good.

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Jack left for class early the next day. Shitty listened to him leave, traipsed down to the kitchen to grab a Hot Pocket, then sat in his nook, chewing slowly and thinking about what he should do next.

His first impulse was to Google some French thing Jack had muttered last night. It took a few tries before he got the spelling right, but once he found out what _‘je veux m'étouffer sur ta bite’_ meant, he had to go back to bed so he could masturbate while chewing on his own arm.

He went to his class but didn’t absorb a word. All he could think about was Jack on his knees, stroking himself and looking at Shitty like he was all he ever wanted.

Jack’s teeth, Jack’s hands. His own red cock popping out of his Captain’s lust-drunk mouth.

As soon as he got home, Shitty masturbated again. Then he laid there, for over an hour, sprinkled in cum and self-doubt.

This might be a mountain. Could just be a molehill.

Shitty wasn’t going to try and qualify/quantify his sexuality -- he understood what was going on. Jack was his best friend, and _gorgeous_ , and they admired each other deeply. They could each be entirely themselves in their company, and for Shitty and Jack, that was vital. They fed off each others’ boundless energy: Shitty the wildfire, Jack the volcano. Together they made an inferno. Their friendship may have been a mystery to others, but Shitty had always understood perfectly.

And, Shitty thought to himself, rather amusedly, it was about time he fucked another athlete. The teammate connection was one of the most satisfying relationships Shitty had ever known, and he was pleased to have explored that relationship to its utmost. Nevermind the outstanding physical prowess and... definition.

And then there was that _longing_. Shitty figured it out on his third walk around the pond, and he'd later point to it as a crucial step in his personal development.

His drunken breakdown wasn’t a lie; Shitty _had_ put all of his personal ideals on Jack’s shoulders, consciously or not. Like the guy didn’t have enough up there already. His love for Jack was wrapped up in Shitty's own issues with his family, who he was, what he wanted out of life. Jack represented the best and most unreachable of his farsighted wishes: to change someone's outlook on life with his words alone.

And it wasn’t sexual. Not all of it, and definitely less so now that they’d actually had sex. Shitty hated admitting it, but as much as he’d enjoyed it, the desire itself had lost its edge. The tension had been permanently lessened. He liked being close to Jack, and seeing him like that… Shitty wouldn’t change a thing. But his lust had carried so far because of his curiosity and adventurous, experience-hungry impulsivity, not because of lasting desire or romantic feelings.

He reminded himself to treat it as valuable experience, not as another worthless mistake, and it only took the long way back to the Haus to convince himself.

Shitty smoked a bowl when he got home and, though he usually didn’t let that sort of thing happen, the paranoia got the better of him. What if Jack actually _did_ have feelings for him? He’d been so good about talking to Jack about his sexuality earlier in the year -- what if Jack had been trying to confess his feelings at the same time? The guy was so dense when it came to his emotions. What if he just now figured it out and wanted a relationship?

Shitty's gut told him he was wrong but there was still the possibility. He'd have to figure out a way to approach this delicately. Hurting Jack was out of the question.

The window to the roof was a little jammed, so Shitty had to wrestle with it for a few minutes before it opened. He collapsed onto the lawn chair and sighed with the breeze. Spring really was beautiful at Samwell. He wondered if anything beautiful lasted. Did he really deserve the friendship he'd been given?

Maybe a relationship with Jack wouldn’t be so terrible. He could really practice what he preached, so to speak, and show the world just how committed he was to his dream of a gender-free, sexually-gray, spiritually-rainbow Utopia. His parents would definitely disown him, which would be fine -- it’s not like he’d need for any financial support, between a lawyer and NHL player’s salaries. And it’s not like they ever gave him any emotional support to begin with. Jack's parents were more than enough family for him. He could hang around with hockey elite, they could snuggle most nights, and maybe Jack would be open to Shitty having romantic outings and occasional relations with a certain lady-bro.

 _Because you’re straight_ , Shitty thought with a sigh. _You’re tragically heterosexual and that’s that, brah._

He packed another bowl without cleaning it. Sometimes the extra smoke from the last round made the new one a bit harsher, a bit more intense. For all his superficial frivolity, Shitty liked intensity. He liked it in Lardo, he liked it in Jack. That’s why the biting gave him such a hard-on. That’s why Jack’s hands kept popping back into his mind, even when he was watching the lame lacrosse bros across the street try to master the patented Lardo flip-cup fade-away right under the Haus’s fucking nose.

“HOW DARE YOU, SIRS!” Shitty yelled.

They didn’t seem to hear.

He slipped deeper into the cheap plastic. Sex with Jack was good. Sex with Jack could happen again. But they’d have to talk about last night and everything that it could or could not mean. And if it meant risking their friendship, well… Shitty wouldn’t let that happen. Shitty would fall on his sword before he let Jack fall out of his life.

And just like that, he knew what to do. He got out his phone.

Shitty: I got your back, bro. Always.

Jack Zimmermann: …

Jack Zimmermann: …

Jack Zimmermann: …

Shitty: What are you trying to type, Jack?

Jack Zimmermann: The smile face. How do you make it?

Shitty: I love you.

Jack Zimmermann: Haha. Love you too, Shits. I'll be home soon.

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

"So when do you leave for Africa?"

"Late April. You'll have to hold down the fort while I'm gone. Think you're up to it, Zimmermann?"

Jack nodded with as much sobriety as he could muster. "You can count on me."

Lardo smiled and reclined back into the Haus couch like a lioness. Shitty didn't like how he kept attaching female-animal stereotypes to Lardo, but he couldn't help it. He was really into watching National Geographic when he was stoned and Lardo represented so perfectly the matriarchal societies he could only see in nature. Jack had big ass tusks, but Lardo was the queen elephant. A big bad great white shark with beautiful silky black hair and a lovely nose and--

"I'm all for your artistic journeys across the globe, bro, but how can you possibly think that we'd be okay without you?"

Lardo chuckled as she flipped through her text messages but there was a definite pause before she replied, and Shitty knew that she'd registered his very real sadness under his also very real frivolity. It was as close as he'd ever come to asking her, very plainly, to not go to Africa and to stay right by his side, forever and ever.

But Lardo had to do Lardo and Shitty wouldn't have it any other way. "Jack's a natural dad. You'll be fine."

"I'm what?"

"You are the dad," Shitty nodded. "Lardo's the... actually, no, wait. You're not the mom. You're the great-grandmother who quietly runs everyone's lives without them ever realizing."

Lardo reached across the couch to take Shitty's hand and smiled. "I'll miss you the most, Weird Uncle."

"If Shitty's the Weird Uncle, who is the mom?"

"We don't have a mom, Jack. This is a Lost Boys situation. If we ever need a Wendy, I'm sure she'll fly in at just the right time."

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

The end-of-season dinner was stiff, as they'd once again been denied the playoffs, but the liveliness was there. The boys felt good about their chances next season, and each could honestly say they were much better players, a much better team, than last year. Jack was voted Captain again, this time with only two votes missing. Shitty considered joking that one of those missing votes was his, but he knew he'd never convince Jack of that. He was never a good actor -- too honest.

"You wanna make out a little?"

They were back at the Haus, alone, and Jack had a couple hours before his flight back to Montreal. Shitty was going to stay another week, by himself, just to finish up some preparations for his junior year pre-law studies and to get the new housemates into their attic abode. Holster and Ransom were slightly more terrible at moving than Shitty was, so he figured, between the three of them and one six-pack, they could get it all done in two or three days.

Jack turned around and gave Shitty his I'm-About-to-Chirp-You-Into-the-Ground face. "Gonna miss me, eh?"

"Fuck you, Jack Zimmermann."

Jack chuckled as he started towards Shitty. “Hey, next semester. You wanna take that _Gender in Warfare in Early 20th Century America_ class with me? It’s a high-level history credit, too.”

“You really know how to turn me on,” Shitty sighed, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist.

“And it starts at noon. We could get in a morning practice every Monday and--“

Shitty put his mouth over Jack’s mouth. He also loosened Jack’s belt and sank his hands into Jack’s nice post-season team dinner trousers, which was hard, because they were so tailored to his immense ass that there was little room for anything else.

Jack let them topple to the couch and, for a solid hour, Shitty managed to push away all the dread of returning to Cambridge. It was just him, Jack, and that nasty green couch that Shitty loved more than the home he'd grown up in, more than his childhood bed. It even smelled like a combination of all the people he loved most in the world. He gave Jack mustache burn and Jack eventually rolled on top of him, that comforting weight pressing Shitty even deeper into his favorite place on Earth.

He wasted most of their time trying to think of the perfect good-bye speech, but when it came time for Jack to leave, a deep hug turned out to be more than enough for the both of them.

“Come visit, eh?”

“Oh, def. And tell your dad I said, ‘The charm is still there.’ He’ll know what it means.”

“…Okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know whether or not Ngozi named Shitty "Knight" for a reason, but he definitely acts as knight-and-protector-of-the-realm for Jack and the Haus...so I rolled with it. Jack's hockey royalty! 
> 
> I also really enjoyed the panel where Jack is glowering outside of Bitty's shower, ready to yank the curtain open--it's one of the most visually hilarious parts of the comic. I know Bitty probably replaced A TRULY AWFUL shower curtain with the pink one, but the pink-yellow-mist-image stuck in my head.
> 
> Also, I'm iffy about whether or not Jack really did casually sleep with girls at Samwell? But I love a complex character so let's say he just really needed some physical comfort with some eager and lovely ladies a couple times a year. The guy. Is Human.
> 
> CH. 3 - Junior Year next! Stay tuned~


	3. Junior Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the kind words and I love sharing my head-creations with all of you. So thanks <3 !!!!!

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Your attention, please. I require complete silence for this next part. Thank you.”

Shitty whipped his flow.

“Hit me.”

Bitty tapped his iPhone and music blasted through Ransom’s awesomely powerful portable speaker, placed carefully on a stool in the middle of the room. Shitty proceeded to get down in the stoner-est, most gangster-lite groove ever while Bitty engaged in the most precise dance hall ass-shaking the Haus had ever seen before or since. The Mexico vs. Argentina game on TV added some dramatic Spanish samples to the pumping Beyonce track.

Holster kept eating his popcorn. “We’re trying to watch the game, bro.”

“Yeah, you guys. Time and place!” said Ransom.

“Watch me work,” Shitty chanted. “Watch me work.”

“You better kiss me,” Bitty echoed the actual lyrics. “Before time has run out!”

Shitty was drawing attention to himself with sheer weirdness, but Bitty didn’t have to try. He was such a good dancer that Shitty had a hard time focusing on his own game -- he wanted to stop just to take notes. Big things truly do come in small packages.

The second chorus had already started before Ransom noticed Jack standing behind the couch with his backpack slung low on his shoulder and an empty protein shake dangling from his hand. His face was stone.

“Hey, Jack. You okay?”

Jack looked blankly down at Ransom. “Hey. Yeah. Uh… how are you?”

Bitty stopped dancing and immediately turned the volume down.

“Aw, man!” said Shitty. “You broke my groove!”

“Sorry, Jack,” said Bitty. “We’ll keep it down.”

Jack just frowned and strode up the stairs. Bitty’s diva stance withered a bit.

“Aww, Bits…”

Shitty swiftly put an arm around Bitty’s shoulders -- he couldn’t let this Southern flower wilt under the ice of the North, no matter how much he admired that ice.

“Brah, you don’t have to mind Jack so much. He can’t help his face. He’s not _really_ biting back cold rage 24/7.”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty said, rolling his eyes but smiling. “I think I’ll check on that cobbler.”

After Bitty scooted out of the room, Shitty turned towards Holster and Ransom with his Imagine-I-Have-My-Megaphone face. “Alright, guys. We gotta protect this kid. We can’t go back to the days of cheese wiz and packaged meat with no visible expiration date.”

“Bits ruined me,” Ransom groaned. “I used to _like_ murder-meat.”

“We’re better off, bro,” Holster nodded. “It’s a different Haus now. Like, I didn’t know impromptu dance parties were a thing that was possible.”

“Then it’s settled. Bitty is our #1 frog and cherished teammate. Long may he bake pies and fill our Haus with sweet Southern sunshine.”

In unison: “ _S’wawesome_.”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Bitty was too good at skating. That was the problem. If he’d simply sucked, Jack wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But Bitty was good, and if it weren’t for his weird fainting-goats trick, he might rival Jack in effectiveness on the ice. Not probable. But possible.

So Shitty told this to Bitty, one crisp morning in early October, with a mouthful of Bitty’s pear and red wine tart. Bitty nearly dropped his flour, sending a puff of white dust into the air with comical precision.

“What? Shitty, you’re crazy.”

“I’m serious! What gets you is the physicality, I get that. You’re a small dude. But you’re not, like, the _smallest_ player I’ve ever seen. This bro last year, I shit you not, he almost went between my fucking legs--“

“It’s… complicated,” Bitty sighed, that sweet Southern lilt going taut as a banjo string.

Shitty knew that if Bitty couldn’t phrase something elegantly, politely, and to the benefit of all listening, then he didn’t say anything at all. And some things you couldn’t put a good spin on.

“Okay, okay,” Shitty rapidly supplied. “But you got that assist in the first game, and I’m tellin’ you, that’s reason enough to be a little fuckin’ high on your horse. Also? This tart is blowing my fucking mind. Thought there’d be more wine though.”

Bitty snickered and together they finished the bottle of cheap pinot noir that Bitty had purchased exclusively for cooking.

Jack came home to this joyous day-drinking and frowned in the doorway.

Shitty cackled, “Get a new look, Zimmermann, for Christ’s sake.”

“We have practice later. You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“We’re not drinking! It’s just _wine._ ”

Jack switched his attention to Bitty. “Bittle.”

Bitty half-jumped. “Uh! Yes?”

“4am. Faber. Bring your gear.”

Jack walked away. Bitty was ashen. Shitty put an arm around his shoulders.

“See? Everything’s turning out swell.”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

“So your dad will be here in a couple hours.”

Jack nodded, or tried to, as much as he could with both of Shitty’s hands on the sides of his face. His eyes rolled toward the window, bright with early frost. His throat was dry.

“Ouais, ouais.”

“Don’t you try that saucy Quebecois on me right now, Jack Zimmermann. I want your full attention on this matter. Do you promise to call me the second you feel close to the edge?”

Jack’s eyes went soft on Shitty. “Yes.”

“Do you want to cuddle for awhile?”

“No.”

“Okay. I won’t pretend like that doesn’t hurt, but okay. Do you want to head down to pre-skate early with me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to sprint there?”

“Yes.”

Shitty let his hands drop from Jack’s face. Then he knelt before him and started lacing up his bright yellow Adidas. Jack always liked the laces at a certain angle.

“Shitty…”

“You should call your dad beforehand.”

“What? No. No, I can’t--“

“Listen to me.” Shitty looked up at Jack with the midday sun making his eyes look very green, very intelligent, crackling with all the magic Jack attributed to his mind and his words.

“You’ve been doing so well. You’re at the top of your game. Call your dad, hear his voice. Let him tell you how proud he is of you, if he wants to be proud. Let him be worried, if he wants to be worried. Let it be a little less than your perfect ideal of what a conversation with him should be like. Then let it go, and play the fucking game.”

Jack looked close to tears, but in a way that was nothing but good. Shitty kissed Jack’s knee, of all things, before rising to his feet and extending a hand to Jack, smiling sheepishly.

“Now let’s see who can run the faSTEST JACK ZIMMERMANN YOU CHEAT GET BACK HERE--!”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

One hour after Bitty’s first goal sent them home as winners, there was a small knock on Shitty’s door. The Haus was beyond silent -- sleeping post-game athletes provided a heady sort of atmosphere, a natural hypnotic that Shitty liked to let settle over him while he iced his elbow and absorbed the words of Audre Lorde by lamplight like the warrior poet he fucking was.

But Shitty put his book and his ice aside as soon as Jack came into his room, which never happened this late at night, unless:

“Do you have time to talk?”

Shitty looked at Jack with pure love and patted his lap invitingly. Jack sat on the floor and leaned back against Shitty’s legs.

“I can’t stop thinking about the season.”

“Yeah, brah. I hear ya. I’m trying to take it one game at a time, but sometimes I can’t turn my fucking brain off, y’know?”

Jack sighed. Shitty sank his thumbs into Jack’s shoulders. It was rough, massaging Jack. His muscles were used to tension of all sorts and it took considerable physical effort to work out the knots. Shitty owed most of his forearm strength to massaging Jack Zimmermann.

“The coaches say I’m a better player when I’m with Bittle.”

And there it is.

“Uhh, chyah brah. You just now noticed? I’ve been trying for three years to play with you as well as Bittle does.”

“He’s so _annoying_ ,” Jack growled. “I don’t need him. I can be better.”

“I know that you wish you could be the only one on the ice, Jack--"

“No I don’t--"

“--But isn’t the next best thing having a speedy little puck-delivery system?”

Shitty wasn’t the best hockey player on the team, but he could deliver a verbal shut-out any day of the week. Of course, it didn’t take much to make Jack Zimmermann go silent, but countering those anxious, self-damaging thoughts on the daily warranted some kind of trophy, in Shitty’s view. A tiny Calder made out of candy, perhaps.

Shitty pressed his thumbs in just above Jack's _latissimus dorsi_ and Jack involuntarily groaned, a tiny sound from the bottom of his stomach.

“Besides… I think he’s kind of cute.”

Jack glared over his shoulder. Shitty touched a spot on Jack’s trapezius and felt his friend dissolve under his fingers.

“What? He is! Those big brown eyes, that golden blonde hair, that tight, perky ass--“

Shitty was on the floor in seconds. He imagined that Jack had reached backwards and flipped Shitty over his shoulder, landing him somewhat hard on his back, but it all happened so fast that Shitty couldn’t say for sure.

“Ow, Jesus! What the fuck--!“

Then Jack was leaning over Shitty and kissing him upside-down. The heavy thud from Shitty’s landing could’ve easily woken up even an exhausted hockey player, but both Jack and Shitty knew they were safe -- they were always safe in the Haus.

Jack quickly moved on from Shitty’s lips to his neck, sucking and biting the slope between throat and shoulder. Shitty looped a hand backwards to ruffle Jack’s hair.

“We gonna do this now? You’re transparent as fuck, Jack Zimmer --  _ahh!_ ”

Jack had sidled up to Shitty’s side and started massaging Shitty’s cock through his boxers with his stupidly large hand. Shitty blamed himself for never providing more layers between his willing body and the Zimmermann denial machine. Seriously, what's with this guy and cute blondes who are good at hockey?

Whatever, he thought. Maybe it’ll release some of Jack’s pent-up bitchiness.

Also it feels _amazing_.

The kissing was almost better, if that were possible. Jack got right side up and would probably have mustache burn all over his mouth, but it was by choice. He didn’t have to kiss Shitty so passionately. He didn’t have to make those little groaning noises every time Shitty pressed back with matching ferocity.

“Brah. Get on top of me. And lose the pants.”

Jack obeyed. He stripped bare and straddled Shitty slowly, with concentration. Then he pulled Shitty’s cock from the slit of his boxers, lined it up with his own, and then leaned forward so they rubbed together with his heavy, measured thrusts.

Shitty bucked too, involuntarily, and rubbed his hands indulgently up and down Jack’s large back. The slow kissing, the even slower frotting, Jack’s weight pressing Shitty into the carpet and Shitty’s legs looping easily around Jack’s waist -- it was so easy, and comforting, and hot as hell. He felt himself grow wet against Jack's cock, making their thrusts slick and _insanely_ good. Shitty thought he could die with his cock trapped against Jack's rigid abdominals.

“You can move faster than that,” Shitty whispered.

“I know,” Jack whispered back.

“So you wanna torture me? What happened to --  _fuck --_ following my orders?”

“It was never about orders. It’s about… praise.”

Shitty stopped and raised a brow. “Praise for fulfilling your needs, or mine?”

Jack paused too, and his hips threatened to stop before Shitty took hold of them and guided them on.

“Is there any virtue in only giving others what you _believe_ they want?”

It wasn’t often that Shitty let the purely philosophical part of himself out in such an intimate setting, but that was who he was. He often felt like a man standing on the top of a mountain, looking into the valley below. He could see everything, from the baby in its cradle to the men trading goods at market, and what is there for a lonely man on a mountaintop to do but proclaim his vision to others?

There’s a bigger picture out there, he’d say. I can see it all. I can make your lives better.

But another part of him, the part that loved his best friend, knew that forcing your views on to others was a one-way ticket to eternal loneliness. He reminded himself of the same adage he’d kept since they lost their first game of freshman year -- this is a process. Let it grow.

Also, he knew that he wasn’t smart enough to really puncture Jack’s issues. Not yet.

“C’mon, ya big fucker. Kiss me like that again.”

Jack settled back into the comfort of a task he knew he could accomplish and kissed Shitty with abandon. It was just as good as before -- maybe a little better.

“You know I’m your Knight in shining armor, right?”

“Wow, Shitty. Please shut up.”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Shitty had learned enough by junior year to seem somewhat surprised when Bitty comes out to him. He’d made the assumptions, and gone through the intricate mental task of filtering those assumptions through logic and internal rhetoric, but the underlying hunch had never gone away; Bitty was too eager to be himself not to ping on the gaydar.

He only wished Jack was as open. _Could_ be as open.

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Lardo was back. Lardo was back and all was right with the world. He got to tell her all about Bitty and Jack and Jack and Bitty and Lardo pieced it all together way too quickly. Shitty had gotten too comfortable with thinking that he was the smartest one on the team.

“Bitty’s comfortable with himself in a way that Jack can’t be. He _assumes_ love -- Jack thinks he has to work for it.”

“Ugh, you’re so right.” Shitty sighed and stretched out on the blanket he’d laid across the front lawn. It was still cold outside, but his Northeastern blood and dedication to nudity made him hardy enough to withstand the pre-spring breezes bare-chested and in cutoff jeans.

Lardo, however, was drowning in Jack’s hoodie (which looked way too good on her, Shitty irrationally glowered) and sipping hot chocolate in between joint puffs. “You think they’ll be good for each other? On the same line and all?”

“Are you kidding? It’ll be a blast.”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Concussions may be common in sports as violent as hockey, but when it happens to one of your teammates, it’s as sudden and jarring as a heart attack.

Shitty, Ransom and Holster waited outside of the doctor’s office while Bitty had his evaluation. Shitty waited for Jack to show up. He kept waiting, even when Bitty came out and tried to reassure them all that he was fine, that he could skate again next year if he rested over the summer.

Shitty was still waiting for Jack that night, when the guy came home at 1:17am and tried to walk upstairs without anyone noticing.

“Where have you _been?_ ”

Jack didn’t stop walking into his room. He closed the door behind him, with the softest ‘click,’ and Shitty could hear him tiredly shuffling out of his running clothes.

Shitty knew that respecting the boundaries of ones’ friends and teammates was immeasurably important. Trust wasn’t just built, it was maintained, like renovations to an old Haus. Walls are built for a reason.

But a very loud and red-hot part of him wanted that fucking wall to just come down already.

“Can I come in, Jack?”

Shitty barely waited for his response, which came out in grunt form. Good enough.

“Why didn’t you call? Don’t you care how he is?”

Jack looked up at Shitty from his reading chair, getting post-workout sweat all over the faded green upholstery. He was bare from head to toe but didn’t seem ashamed.

He’s past ashamed, Shitty realized. He’s self-loathing.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jack.”

“It was.”

“No, it wasn’t! You didn’t know—“

“I didn’t think. I just wanted to score. I didn’t even think about what might happen. I didn’t think because I didn’t --  _fuck._ Shitty. I fucked up. I really fucked up this time.”

Jack put his face into his hands at the same time Shitty put his arms around his captain. He didn’t know what was true. He didn’t know what would help.

Not for the first, nor the last time, Shitty didn't have the right words; all he could do was be there for Jack and hope it was enough.

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

Shitty had his first real panic attack a few days later. Despite his open affection for Bitty, he’d only truly realized the depth of his regard when Bitty’s health was suddenly threatened. That little ray of sunshine was a permanent source of joy in Shitty’s life unlike anything else -- even the constancy of Jack L. Zimmermann didn’t compare. He’d had to build that love with Jack, but Bitty’s glow came standard. Period. There was no Bitty without Bitty’s Love.

When that sunshine faltered, suddenly everything else in Shitty’s life lost its permanence. He knew it also had to do with Senior Year looming on the horizon, and with it, the promise of an Ending, of a time when he would no longer live next to his best friend, a time when he couldn’t traipse downstairs at noon and enjoy any variety of pie and Southern comfort, a time when he would have an entire future to care about and fight for and determine, all by himself, for himself. 

He’d never wavered on the ice, never faltered in a class or in his ideals, but he had to confess to Lardo and no one else, that he didn’t know where he’d be in a year and that he was terrified.

“Dude… can you talk about this kind of serious shit while wearing a crop top?”

Shitty laughed. And then he sobbed.

Lardo, stunned, walked him up to his room and patted his back with the awkwardness of a pit bull trying to lick clean a tiny, tiny kitten. Shitty hugged his knees and tried not to look even more pathetic by getting snot all over the rug.

“Bro. You’re a _mess_ ,” Lardo said, with all the love in the world, “What’s going on?”

“What’s gonna happen to me, Lards?”

She sighed, as she had so many times before, often when one of the boys was doing something profoundly stupid and she, in the infinite wisdom Shitty attributed to her, had to point out the obvious and save everyone’s ass. Shitty knew he was about to get some grade-A Lardo insight that would slam dunk all his problems and make him feel a thousand times better.

“I don’t know, Shits. No one does.”

 _Well, fuckin' A_ , Shitty thought.

“And there’ll be a lot of times when you realize that and you get scared. That you don’t know the future, that you _can’t_ know. That’s when you have to think about the now. If I thought about the future every time I went to paint… how people will receive it, whether or not I’ll be able to make it as an artist, how that particular piece is going to affect my future… shit, I’d never paint again.”

“I miss it,” Shitty whispered. “ _I already miss it_. I already long for what I have right now. I long for what I know I’ll lose in one year’s time.”

“Then do everything you can to make it count, bro. You’re lucky -- most people don’t appreciate what they have until it’s gone. You already know how good you have it. Just… don’t let it pass by. Keep reminding yourself to appreciate everyone.”

Shitty still felt like Lardo wasn’t quite getting what he was trying to communicate, but that was alright. He knew it was impossible for her to read his mind. He knew that two people could only fumble their way through any relationship, never knowing exactly what the other was thinking or feeling, but showing their affection any way they could despite it all. It was the human condition. It was his relationship with Jack. Often, it was his relationship with himself.

Or maybe he just wasn't ready to be cheered up.

“Thanks, Lardo.”

“Anytime.”

“Wanna cuddle?”

“Wipe your fucking nose, Shits.”

 

 

 

_/ _/ _/

 

 

The walk back to the house after the end-of-season team banquet was quieter that year. Shitty was still thinking about Jack’s speech, and who knew what Jack was thinking about. Hopefully also his speech, because Shitty wanted to talk about it.

“So, like… what the actual fuck was that about?”

“Not now, Shitty.”

“Hey! I’m just trying to… that was fucking incredible, brah! I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Jack hid his face, but there was only so much he could cover without a baseball cap.

“Listen. I’m not saying this season wasn’t rough. We got closer than we’ve ever been before, and I know that just makes it all the harder, not getting to go all the way... But, fuck, you just keep getting _better_ , and it’s a fucking sight to behold. Not just as a player, brah.”

“Shitty…”

“Jack. You keep taking all these problems and turning them into gold. Can’t you see that?”

Jack put his hands into his pockets and Shitty finally caught a glimpse of his face: twisted. Too dark to touch.

“ _Jack._ Can’t you let yourself win? Can’t you let that be a part of the story you tell yourself about, y’know, yourself?”

“I haven’t won yet.”

For the thousandth time, Shitty wished he were smarter.

He didn’t say anything until they got home and Shitty realized that they’d missed about a dozen texts from Lardo and the rest of the Haus, asking them to get fro-yo.

“You wanna go?”

Jack shrugged his big shoulders.

“You wanna take off that suit?”

Jack nodded, slowly dragging his eyes up to meet Shitty’s.

“You want me to blow you?”

That did it. Jack’s mouth opened, and Shitty crossed the space between the front door and the foot of the stairs in just enough time to catch Jack Zimmermann’s exposed tongue with his own.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. Shitty had read once that a lot of people enjoyed BDSM because of the freedom they found in being bound and obeying someone else’s orders. Life is chaotic and sometimes unfair. The games people invent, the sports they play, the relationships they create with words and expectations… these were manageable. Winnable.

In Jack’s room, Shitty made his hockey captain kneel, naked, with his back against the wall. He made him hold that squat while Shitty stood in front of him, feeling oh so tall.

“Try to keep like that, okay? Don’t move, ya big fucker.”

Shitty loosened his tie, but he didn’t undress. He just dropped to one knee and observed Jack’s cock, twitching to life from the simple orders already. The deep squat strained Jack’s thighs and ass, but Shitty guessed he could hold the position for awhile. At least until Shitty told him he couldn’t.

“Knees further apart. Yeah. _Christ_ , Jack. You look so fucking good right now.”

Shitty ran his knuckles up and down Jack’s cock until it was hard and hot in his hand. Jack was red-faced, more from lust than physical exertion, staring at Shitty like his life depended on his focus and strength. His fingers pressed against the wall, shifting with the strain. Veins appeared in his forearms. Shitty had to catch his jaw from dropping.

“You’re gonna take care of the team, right? Because that’s what captains do?”

“Y-yes.”

“So you’re gonna let me suck your cock, because _I_ want to, and you’re not gonna try to touch me or offer anything afterwards? Because it’s what _I_ want?”

“Fuck, Shitty, _yes_.”

“Dope. Keep those thighs tight, baby.”

Shitty bent forward and took Jack’s cockhead into his mouth. He licked around the ridge, against the slit, then took him until he felt pressure at the back of his throat. He vacuumed back so that the skin dragged over the head. Jack groaned like an animal and Shitty felt his legs quiver violently. _I must be pretty good_ , Shitty thought. He tried to remember exactly what Jack had done to his own cock, and it turned out, the memory of that night in the shower was pretty useful. Like it was branded on the back of his irises or something.

“God, you taste so good.” Shitty gently stroked Jack while looking up at him with wet lips. “You’re doing so well, Jack. Just keep fuckin’ still, baby. You got this.”

Jack whimpered, so Shitty kissed him, let him taste his own pre-cum, stroked him harder. Jack bucked but kept his position as best he could. Shitty stared at him with heavy lids, his whispering lips an inch away from Jack’s panting mouth.

“I’m gonna suck your cock until I feel like letting you come. I’m gonna suck and lick and tease your glorious fucking dick until you shake, mother fucker. Then you’re gonna cum down my fucking throat. You got that?”

Shitty's swearing never lost its magic touch; Jack couldn’t nod, couldn’t speak. He just stared at Shitty with the heat of a thousand suns and licked his own lips.

“Answer me, Canada.”

“Please, Shitty. Yes. _Please_.”

“Good boy.”

Shitty sucked Jack down until his moustache grazed Jack’s pubic hair. He didn’t mind letting Jack’s cock test his gag reflex, didn’t seem to care that he had to think about his breathing and choke back saliva so it didn’t fall on his nice new suit. He just wanted so badly to see Jack struggle, and win, and look so hot while doing so.

“S’good, Jack. So f’m good.”

Jack’s feet slid and scraped on the wooden floor. His muscles and cock twitched uncontrollably and his hips struggled not to nod along with Shitty’s very agile mouth. Shitty thought Jack tasted delicious and couldn’t get enough of the low, inconsistent growls his captain let slide when he just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

But he waited. He teased. Shitty stopped sucking altogether at least three times, for a few minutes, before licking back up Jack’s shaft. Jack probably wouldn’t be able to walk properly the next day. His training camp coaches wouldn’t be pleased. But in that moment, he was winning -- winning for someone he cared about. Someone who believed in him. He let out a gasp and it was the most vulnerable sound Shitty had ever heard out of the captain's beautiful mouth.

“Yeah, _fuck_. Come, Jack. Come for me, baby.”

Jack sounded like he was the one choking when he let his orgasm roll, like electrocution, down his spine and through his jumping pelvis. He was loud, louder than ever, and so intense that Shitty had to break his own rule and take his cock out to finish right there and then.

Jack panted on the ground in a sweaty heap of red muscle and white knuckles. His thighs were still trembling. Shitty swiped up the mess he’d made on the floor with one of Jack’s t-shirts (sorry not sorry) and then laid down next to Jack, cradling his head with his arm.

“S’fucking…spectacular.”

Jack just breathed, and stared, and transmitted emotion through the hand he placed against Shitty’s cheek. He knew he was helping Jack through praise, but that subtle touch made him wonder who was helping who.

 

 

Before he left for the summer, Shitty stuck a note above the thermostat: Touch & Die. This was his still Haus, still his realm, and he'd serve and protect it as long as he could. Just like Jack. Just like Lardo. College may end soon, but this never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided that the fic should end here because A) We all know what happens. The natural turn for this fic is that Shitty and Jack would eventually stop hooking up and become friends with almost seamless good humor in between. Not very compelling fiction! and B) I really like where this ends, and I don't think anything that could happen Senior Year will change any part of Shitty's current status! He's a good good boi and he's happy and the separation will be hard but yknow that how it be sometimes. and C) I've definitely moved onto other works (see my Ronin fic if you like Overwatch!) so I think it's best I let this lil gem lie. I enjoyed writing it and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it! Thank you all <333

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/critique encouraged and appreciated!


End file.
